Can't Tell You Where I'll Be
by MegalegU
Summary: Shawn goes to Krispy Kreme and gets struck by lightning. Then gets superpowers. It's been a weird couple of days / "His back arches upon contact before wrenching back in on itself and then, a last coherent thought, 'goddamn donuts'."
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Sooooo this happened. It's not really serious, I guess? Don't think I'm being really serious here, is what I mean. Shawn gets super powers? That's it?! Haha I DON'T KNOW, MAN. I'm used to writing angst and Shawn and Henry being all 'whyyyy do we hate each otherr', 'no Shawn don't do dangerous things', 'oops, I did a dangerous thing', Shawn gets hurt, cue the angst. Anyway, I lifted this idea from my good friend and this might end up having multiple chapters? I had too much caffeine today.**

* * *

It starts like most superhero stories do.

The insatiable hunger for donuts.

Shawn regularly goes to Krispy Kreme for a couple glazed ones and a large coffee easy on the sugar, heavy on the cream. He does it most Tuesdays and sometimes Fridays. And he won't apologize for that.

Anyways, he only became a superhero because one Friday night, he felt like going to get his donut-and-coffee combo. Not for any particular reason, reflecting back on it now. It could have been because it was especially sunny out that day or the SBPD hadn't dished out a case to him in a while or _The Breakfast Club_ was on that night at ten and he wanted to be in a decent mood.

Whatever the case, Shawn rolls his Norton out around seven o'clock in the evening, determined to make the most out of the night, despite having done nothing of note in weeks. Like he had mentioned, the SBPD had been slow-going as of late and, not that he _wanted_ citizens to be in mortal peril or anything, but, well, it was _boring_.

Overhead, the sky seems to darken, clouds scuttling away, most likely revealing a foreboding sense, a storm. It isn't safe to ride a motorcycle in the rain, Shawn knows this, but can't exactly quit now – he is already on his way. Besides, he'll probably make it home just fine. What could possibly go wrong?

Shawn gets his three glazed donuts ( _"Shawn, do you know how long donuts take to digest in your body_?" Gus's words echo in Shawn's mind, _"Three days! Three days each for every donut!"_ ) and coffee, deciding to just enjoy them at a stool near the window overlooking the parking lot. If the rain starts up, fine. He'll sit here and wait it out.

Just as he is licking some donut glaze off his thumb, he realizes that the sky is even darker, if possible. He only has a few drops of coffee left in his cup and he drains it quickly before pulling out his keys and giving a wave to the cashier, Benny.

This is when the bad stuff happens.

Unfortunately, Shawn had been too optimistic. The storm would not wait for him to get home first. He is only halfway to his apartment when the sky erupts with droplets of rain, starting in a light sprinkle.

Shawn is unsure how to handle this. If he had stayed within the safe confines of the Krispy Kreme, this would not have been an issue. However, now he is approaching a large bridge and there isn't a sign of safety for miles. If the rain keeps at a light sprinkle, he should be fine.

The rain does not stay at a light sprinkle. Within minutes, the rain picks up and comes down so heavily, Shawn swerves to the left and then the right, knowing he should absolutely get off of his bike, _right now_. Thunder begins to sound, as if the heavy rain wasn't enough. Lightning soon follows and Shawn curses under his breath.

Just as he approaches the bridge, he hears a loud roar and a squealing of brakes. Heart pounding in his chest, he makes a desperate brake to the right and watches in disbelief as a Jeep Cherokee zooms by, evidently not having noticed Shawn's figure in all the rain.

Shawn, gripping his handlebars, pants heavily.

The Jeep comes to a halt and a heavyset man wearing a sweatshirt steps out, hood up over his head. "Hey, buddy, you okay?" he asks.

Shawn pulls off his helmet to tell him yes, he is okay, just barely, when overhead, thunder roars so loudly it seems to surprise even the man opposite him. Shawn opens his mouth but the lightning soon follows and its destination is…

Shawn.

It all kind of goes hazy after that.

It doesn't really _feel_ how he expected it to, like all of your bones turning to liquid, like pain erupting from the top of your scalp to the bottom of your toenails. It's surprising, almost tranquil. It's like going to sleep.

You know, if going to sleep meant getting struck by lightning.

His back arches upon contact before wrenching back in on itself and then, a last coherent thought, _goddamn donuts_.

While Shawn sinks down onto the pavement like a bag of bricks, the man opposite him steps back in shock and then rushes to dial 911. He skids over to the younger man and can't honestly believe it – there isn't a mark on him. His eyes are closed and his skin looks a little sallow, but other than that, he seems unscathed.

However astute the man's observations are, Shawn takes a turn for the worse once he reaches the hospital. The doctors swarm around the man, all searching for evidence of getting struck by lightning but there is just smooth, unblemished skin on his chest.

It's at that moment that Shawn goes into cardiac arrest. Monitors are beeping shrilly and doctors and nurses are frantically attempting to bring him back but it looks hopeless. Some hospital members are probably thinking, _of course_. If it looks good on the outside, it doesn't on the inside. It had been too good to be true – a man walking away from being struck by lightning.

"Call it."

"Time of death – 8:46PM."

"Damn it."

One of the doctors, an older man, steps away from the table and stares at the younger man before him, feeling guilty. Sometimes he feels absolutely discouraged when another person, even if there had been nothing he could have done to prevent it, dies. He looks at the young man before him, thinking, _damn it_. So many people think they have so much time but he has seen it countless ways: it can all get cut short.

The doctor is about to leave the room when he spots a small movement. He can't believe it.

The young man's finger moves again and then his hand twitches. Before the doctor can alert anyone else to this anomaly, the young man rises up from the table with something almost like a…yawn?

"Holy crap," he says to no one in particular. "Does anyone have any water? I feel like I've been hit by a truck."

* * *

Amazingly, Shawn is given a clean bill of health.

The doctors ran every test they could, checking his heart, his eyes, his ears, his lungs. They called for blood tests, they called for X-Rays, even MRIs. Nothing.

Shawn is cleared to go home although the doctors look hesitant to let him go. There isn't a stitch wrong with him but anyone at the hospital knows how conditions can sometimes turn on a dime.

Maybe it's the coffee he had earlier but Shawn feels almost…energized, which is odd. He sits on the bed he had been assigned to and wonders absently if he should call his father or Gus. They would want to know what had happened. At the same time though, nothing _had_ happened. It wouldn't be worth it to upset them over nothing.

He shakes the doctor's hand, hops off the bed and makes his way to the parking lot. The man that had nearly run him over on the bridge had brought it over to the hospital and then gave him his card, telling him if he needed anything, anytime, to give him a call.

And then Shawn goes home in time to watch _The Breakfast Club_.

All in all, it was a good night.

* * *

Shawn wakes up the next morning feeling like he just knocked back three cans of Red Bull and a handful of caffeine pills. It's like his blood turned into pure espresso.

He walks into his kitchen and rubs his eyes blearily. This must be a side effect of getting struck by lightning, he decides. You walk around for a few days feeling edgy. That must be it.

The rest of his morning is…weird.

While he showers, he _swears_ he hears his next door neighbor Ms. Malone drop and break a coffee mug in her kitchen. " _Damn it_ ," she whispers, _"and I_ just _mopped this floor_."

Okay, Shawn has thin walls in his apartment, yes, but they aren't _that_ thin. In order to hear that, he'd have to have _no_ walls. Or better yet, be inside Ms. Malone's apartment.

Then he goes to make himself a pot of coffee and when he grips the handle of the pot, it snaps off and causes the whole thing to break, smashing onto the floor.

And _yes_ , the coffee pot had been a garage sale buy and it was probably made in the 90's but would it have broken _that_ easily? Shawn doesn't think his grip is all that powerful. Numbly, he wipes up the mess, sweeping away glass shards.

He vows to get something from a nearby Coffee Bean and then leaves his apartment, feeling more than a little weird.

While Shawn waits in line for his pineapple iced coffee – _yes,_ they _do_ make pineapple iced coffee – he sees a nearby flyer on the wall. _Burton Guster: Spanish lessons?_ What the hell? He snatches it off the corkboard and the thick paper slices across his palm.

"Ow!" he hisses. Paper cut. He reaches for a nearby napkin but feels an odd tingling sensation across his hand. _Struck by lightning side effect?_ Looking down in morbid fascination, he realizes that the thin gash on his palm is slowly knitting itself back together, piece by piece. The tingling feeling intensifies and he bends slightly inward, wincing.

Then, suddenly, it's gone. There is a slight spot of blood but the shallow cut is gone.

"Okay," Shawn says aloud to himself, "something is going on here."

"Pineapple iced coffee for Shawn?"

* * *

The next few moments are like a montage Shawn's only seen in movies.

After downing his coffee, he drives out to a certain beach that he knows won't be crowded at this hour. Mostly because it's a privately-owned one. Oops.

He walks across the sand for a long while until he comes to a practical wall of rocks that lead up to a parking area overlooking the beach itself. Some of the rocks are huge, some are miniscule. It appears as if someone made a path to be able to climb up top but Shawn instead stares curiously at the large, jagged boulders at the bottom. Perhaps it was a fluke, a random event that the coffee pot shattered beneath his grip. But maybe it wasn't. Shawn doesn't believe he can just go and try to lift a car but…what would be so wrong with trying this?

A large, gray-colored rock is his first attempt. He comes at it with two hands, pulling at the edges, attempting to bring it back towards him. It's a comical sight – a grown man pulling at an impossible-to-move rock, his body contorted in an awkward shape as he exhales breath after breath before falling onto his ass in disgust.

That's it. He's gone crazy. He must have. What did he think he was doing? That the lightning striking him had actually _done_ something? No, the doctors were right. God, he's wasting time with this. Shawn feels himself growing uncharacteristically angry.

He goes out to kick the rock (stupidly) and closes his eyes in preparation for the pain because he'd decided to just kick a _rock_ but there is…nothing.

Instead, the rock is a few feet away in the sand.

"No way," Shawn breathes. He reaches for another nearby rock and exhales a deep breath before lifting it up in both hands and tossing it aside. He lets out a _whoop_ of surprise and takes a leap from one rock to the next. He can't believe what he is doing; each rock is higher than the one before it. His body shouldn't be able to make such high jumps.

He lets out a triumphant " _Whoohoo!_ " before making the biggest jump he has yet, landing at the top of the pile of rocks. He stares down below him, at the waves crashing in at the shore, not sure exactly how to feel.

Then, suddenly, he hears the squeal of tires. At a distance no typical human should be able to see from, he sees a familiar SBPD vehicle. He can't help but stand, mesmerized at his newfound ability. He can even hear Juliet say, " _Is that…Shawn_?"

A few moments later, the car stops just a few feet away. Shawn looks around himself in bewilderment. How high had he jumped to get here?

"Shawn?"

"Ah, Juliet!" Shawn plasters a grin on his face. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Juliet's petite face wrinkles in confusion. "Shawn, you _do_ know this is a private area, right?"

Shawn widens his hazel eyes as if Juliet has just dropped some very important information on him. "What?" he asks. "Really?"

Juliet smirks. She is not totally immune to him anymore. "Yes. It is. We got a call saying there was some strange man jumping around out here."

Shawn reddens. "Huh, well that's…that's odd. Wonder who that was."

Juliet is still smiling. "Yeah, well, anyway. Come on. We've got a case."

* * *

Gus is already at the scene of the crime, which, _what_.

Shawn must look confused because Gus shrugs and says simply, "I was in the area." Shawn has a strong suspicion that this must have to do with the 'Spanish lessons' flyer from earlier but he won't say anything. Yet.

The case is like any other that Shawn has stumbled upon. Person reasonably known in the neighborhood found dead in house, cause of death suspicious, Lassiter giving him shit for saying so, etc, etc.

Oh, right. The psychic thing.

"Agh!" Shawn grips his head as if he is in total agony. "The spirits! They are _shouting_ at me, Jules!"

Juliet, she of the cornflower blue eyes and stunning naiveté, is immediately transfixed. Shawn loves that about her. She is his audience, every time.

"This woman"-Shawn points down to the mid-thirties, slim Hispanic woman laying supine on the floor-"did not die in the way in which you think!" Just as Shawn is about to spin out a few more loopy, psychic statements, the movements around him seem to still.

It is as if someone put everything on slow-mo, but even slower than that, if possible. Suddenly, in this slow-mo, Juliet is reaching up to tuck a flyaway hair behind her ear, Lassiter is taking his time to scowl fiercely and Gus, courtside, reaches for his cell phone.

Shawn, himself, however, feels…normal? What the hell. Confused, he peers around and a few other various SBPD officers are in slow-mo as well, assessing the crime scene area. Except…wait a minute. No, come on. This can't be happening.

Off in the distance, an overlooked area of the home perhaps, some small room most likely meant for crafts or sewing, a man is successfully getting away. He has already heaved himself up over a window ledge. A least suspect escape, fortunately for him, as all of the windows in the house are open. No one would pay any attention. The man – tall and reedy, pale with wide, glistening eyes – is legging it, sprinting away and Shawn can see him much farther than he suspects he should be able to.

Well, no one time like the present, right? No one else is evidently experiencing this extremely odd day. Shawn makes a break for the same exit as the suspicious man. Thankfully, he started back on his exercise regime (a thrice-weekly bike ride, a 45 minute run on the other four days) and scaling the window ledge is no big deal. The drop down is pretty unceremonious, considering how low to the ground the window is.

This is what happens: this man is running away from you and yet you barely have to jog to get to him. You simply move briskly to where he is, grab him by the shoulder and push him to the pavement. You feel an unexpected surge of strength as you do so, like the man on the ground is composed of nothing but air or light. It is exhilarating. It is terrifying.

Then there is an immense pressure in Shawn's temples and, blissfully, it dissipates. The slow-mo is gone. A barely conscious man is now at his feet.

Then, at the window, out of which Shawn vaulted moments ago, a voice shouts, "Shawn?"

Shawn takes a moment to shake himself out of his stupor before he waves easily, as if spotting a friend at a barbecue. "Hey, Juliet. I think I found something!"

The man on the ground gulps.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks for the kind reviews! Here's chapter two. I promise the action starts after this chapter!**

* * *

"So you're saying you felt his presence," Lassiter snaps his gum right in Shawn's face. Quite unprofessional for a man of his candor, but Shawn will let it slide because today has been a really fucking weird day already.

"Yep," Shawn says, head nodding frantically. "It was like…I could feel it… _everywhere_." He lets his voice take on a different inflection, mostly for show, for Juliet, who will of course eat it up.

"Uh huh," Lassiter has his notepad out but he's probably doodling his name in cursive like he always does when he thinks Shawn is feeding him bullshit. Shawn can't blame him.

"Well, Thomas did confess on the spot," Juliet acquiesces. Thomas is the name of the man that Shawn ran after. She smiles conspiratorially at Shawn. She has gotten braver since she started working for the SBPD. Lassiter will scowl at her and she won't even falter now.

Shawn absentmindedly itches a spot on his arm. "So, can I go and get some lunch or do I need to stay for anything?"

Juliet looks confused. "Shawn, you just caught the murderer three minutes ago."

Shawn shrugs.

Gus, who has been doing nothing but standing in the corner drinking a latte for ten minutes, walks over and checks his watch. "Speaking of lunch, I actually need to go."

Juliet waves him on. "Go ahead."

Shawn doesn't say anything to his friend as he leaves and Juliet notices this but doesn't say anything. Everything is fine but Shawn just wants to freak Gus out and make him _think_ that there's something wrong before he demands to know what the hell the Spanish lessons flyer is about. Then Gus will be so relieved that nothing actually _is_ wrong that he'll tell him.

 _God_ , he's good.

Lassiter and Juliet talk amongst themselves for a moment while Shawn lingers around the dead woman's house, feeling eerie. Not because there's a dead body nearby. Well, somewhat. But mostly because he might have a mental problem. Or a physical one. Or both.

Shawn has come to this conclusion because the only _logical_ explanation he can come up with for his body being able to do these impossible things is: he has super powers.

Saying it in his head alone makes him nervous. Normal people don't think of outrageous things like this. Then again, normal people probably also don't pretend to be psychic to the police and then make a career out of it.

Nonetheless, Shawn shakes himself out of it. What he needs to focus on is that he caught the murderer _way_ earlier in advance than he usually does. This will require some explaining.

The whole questioning thing is meant to happen downtown, in the prescient, but Thomas is just babbling away, cuffed, on the floor, not too far away from the dead body. He is even _crying_ and all of this is unfamiliar territory. Shawn doesn't meet murderers that _cry_. He meets murderers that try to kill him. Where is the action, the adventure?

At that moment, everything slows down. Again. Shawn is having a long day.

Thomas, though handcuffed, evidently still has _some_ movement of his extremities, because, mesmerized, Shawn watches as his slow-mo vision reveals a knife sliding nearly all the way out of the back of his jean pocket.

Though this maneuver will probably not do any significant damage, due to the fact that his movements are extremely restricted because of the handcuffs, Shawn isn't just going to stand there.

"Hey!" Shawn shouts, for lack of a better exclamation. He lunges forward and pulls the knife by the hilt out of Thomas's palm. He pivots and faces Juliet and Lassiter while two nearby SBPD officers restrain Thomas.

For once, Shawn has nothing to say.

* * *

Juliet praises Shawn for about five minutes before she and Lassiter have real, actual shit to go take care of. Shawn is let go because, Lassiter had snarled, "I doubt there are any more acts of heroism Spencer can make in a day."

Shawn wants to agree with him but it's too early to tell.

He doesn't opt to go to Gus's work to pester him (it's not in accordance with his previous plan) but instead goes back to the Krispy Kreme, the main culprit in this whole incident.

Shawn opts for a coffee and not any donuts. It may be laughable, but he has a little apprehension toward donuts right now. They have kind of fucked up his whole life today.

He drinks it outside, looking menacingly at the building before him. _Stupid glazed donuts. So rich, filling and moist…_ no. He needs to get out of here.

Without really giving much attention to it, Shawn ends up at the spot on the bridge where he was the previous day. Before he can give it much thought, he pulls the Norton to the side of the road and hops off, eyes searching the stretch of road ahead of him. The memories of yesterday are as vivid as they were in the moment – perhaps this is the curse of his memory.

Almost as if a holographic image of the previous night falls in front of him, Shawn's eyes follow the path his Norton had made down the bridge. The urgent, winding movements and the roaring noise of the Jeep Cherokee sliding past him. Shawn can feel his heart palpitating again, the frantic rhythm unlike anything he has experienced, akin to the feeling of a plane going into turbulence; the drop-down coupled with the fleeting terror that everything might just give out.

Again, the holographic-like images: the man stepping out of the Jeep, Shawn stumbling to keep himself upright, weary and disoriented. About to tell the man opposite him that he is fine, basically, nothing is broken or irreparably damaged.

Then the lightning.

Shawn closes his eyes to shield himself from the memory but he can see it anyway. Despite it being the afternoon, despite there being no chance of a storm or even a light drizzle, he throws himself backwards, in a Hail Mary type fashion, a last-ditch attempt to get away from the threatening event.

He doesn't get struck by lightning (again) and he doesn't pass out thinking about donuts. This is not a dream. These are not the scrambled, stilted ramblings he sometimes takes record of on the back of a cereal box when he's bored in the Psych office. This is not a story he has crafted for his own amusement.

With trepidation, Shawn takes two steps forward, his sneakers barely making contact with the pavement. There is no charred area, no spot with a discernable mark to indicate that anything disastrous occurred the previous day. However, Shawn feels an affinity with it just the same, like an internal GPS is saying, 'right here! Right here!'

One eye opened, one eye closed, Shawn steps onto the spot. Immediately upon contact, his body starts to tingle, like every limb has fallen asleep and is communicating with him to _move, now, move_ and he can't, he just can't. The feeling starts all the way from his toenails, it is coursing through his body like it's in his blood and his organs and every instrument that helps him function is humming.

Then, inexplicably, it all stops. Shawn opens his one eye warily, expecting some kind of cataclysmic event but there is nothing. He lifts one sneaker, stepping off the spot. Nothing. He lifts the other sneaker.

And then – holy _shit_.

If Shawn thought earlier was a weird collision of slow-mo events, this is ten times worse. From tens of miles away, Shawn can see civilization: cars puttering out of driveways, children chasing each other in front lawns, random citizens stepping in and out of establishments. He can see it all. His vision has slowed everything down and sharpened. He can see with impeccable sight – he can glance at the numbers on mailboxes. He can discern what pastries are in the case at Starbucks.

And then with a blink, back to normality.

Blink again. Slow-mo.

Normality.

Slow-mo.

Laughing, Shawn changes his vantage point there and back again, feeling more in tune with his body than he ever has, like every cell is in his control. His laugh reverberates throughout the expanse of the bridge and he victoriously, exuberantly, raises his arms and yells, "Whoohoo!"

* * *

His father calls, because of course he does. There is no realistic way that Henry knows about the events currently comprising Shawn's life but he knows how to ruin a moment, that's for sure.

"Yeah, dad?" Shawn says upon answering his phone. He's still standing in the middle of the bridge, still feeling the remnants of the adrenaline from twenty seconds ago.

"Why do you have to answer the phone like that?" Henry demands, sounding irritable already.

"Like what?" Shawn asks, a smile still on his face despite who he is talking to. Not even Henry Spencer can bring him down today.

"Like you're not talking to your father, who raised you, gave you a roof to sleep under and food to eat, things of that nature."

"And what a pleasant stay I had," Shawn quips.

"You weren't living under the Taliban," Henry retorts, sounding wounded.

"You barely tolerated my presence!" Shawn begins walking back to his motorcycle. "You arrested me!"

Henry sighs, knowing the line he is always supposed to say after this one. "I was trying to teach you a lesson."

"Oh, you did," Shawn says, "just not the one you probably wanted to."

Suddenly there is a pocket of silence in which both men realize they have crossed the line. Both of them will dance around this topic until the end of time but they hardly ever face it head-on. The Spencer way is to avoid something and allude to it but never actually press on it.

Shawn clears his throat. "So…why are you calling?"

"There's a lot of Psych merchandise in my garage still," Henry finally says. "I mean, what is all of this? Psych flip-flops? Psych beach towels?"

"We have a target audience, dad, we live in Santa Barbara."

"Well, evidently not enough of your clients do live here because all of this stuff is clogging up my space. I want it out. Today."

Shawn smirks. It isn't realistic for him to be able to cart multiple boxes home on his motorcycle but he will amble over, make conversation with his father and then leave, most likely with Henry feeling like he got through to his son after all. It's the same old story but damn it if Shawn doesn't get a kick out of it anyway.

"Fine," Shawn says easily, "I'll be right there."

Henry fumbles, not used to getting his way so quickly. "Uh – good."

Shawn smirks. "Bye, dad." He clicks off and then slides his helmet over his head. There are two ways to get to his childhood home: he could go over the bridge or he could turn back around and take the long way. It's obvious why he would feel apprehensive of the damn thing; he nearly died here last night. This bridge just made him experience one of the weirdest feelings he has ever had, one of the most surreal experiences he can ever recall.

The motor runs for a few prolonged moments as he ponders what to do.

Eventually, he shakes his head and goes forward, over the bridge. There's a hell of a lot of things to be terrified of, Shawn reasons, but today, this isn't one of them.

* * *

Henry is out on the back porch when Shawn arrives, making what appear to be steaks.

"Do you ever eat anything different?" Shawn teases, walking up the steps and collapsing into a wicker chair.

Henry swivels around to face him. "If you were cooking, we'd be eating pizza pockets and chocolate milk."

"Rude," Shawn responds. Then he acquiesces, "But true."

Henry quickly turns to face the grill to conceal his smirk. "So," he begins, without preamble. "I heard about what you did today."

Shawn pauses, almost fearful. "What?"

"For the SBPD. Caught the murderer right at the scene, apparently. Lots of heroics, something about a knife?"

"How'd you figure that out already?" Shawn asks but already knows. Henry knows most of the police force. He probably has spies everywhere. At the thought, he shrinks down in his chair.

"I know Ramirez. He said you were acting real fidgety, too. I told you to stop drinking those Red Bulls."

"But dad, if I don't, how will I ever get my wings?"

Henry snorts.

"All I did was catch a guy," Shawn downplays his role, mostly to calm himself down. "Nothing that exciting happened."

Henry shrugs, movements insinuating, _if you say so_ and turns back to the grill. "I know that the police aren't knocking on your door every day for your help," he begins, and Shawn starts to roll his eyes. "What do you even do? Do you have any hobbies?"

"Backgammon, mostly."

Henry glares at him.

"I keep busy," Shawn says, finally feeling defensive. "What's with all the questions?"

"Can't a father ask what his son has been up to?"

Shawn levels him with a look that says, _not if your father is Henry Spencer_.

The words 'I worry about you' will not pass Henry's lips, ever, so only silence follows Shawn's expression. Shawn isn't too sure that his father _does_ worry about him. Maybe he knows in that small, private way, the one which doesn't require proclamations or physical gestures.

Shawn crosses one leg over the other. "How about if I _reverse_ that question. What have you been up to?"

Henry shrugs impishly, looking for all the world like someone that's up to something. "Maybe I have a few things up on my sleeve."

Shawn grimaces. "I don't even want to know what that means." Thinking of his father canoodling with some random woman is enough to make his stomach churn but thinking of women makes him think of Juliet and then _that_ makes him think of earlier. All of this is so goddamn confusing…

"Shawn?"

Shawn snaps his head upright in alarm. Oh, right. He's at his dad's. Everything is fine. Right now at least.

Henry looks almost concerned but he quickly hides it with his trademark scowl. "You have a headache or something?"

Shawn shakes his head. "Nah, I'm fine." His eyes drift over to the grill. "So are those steaks done or what?"

Later on, after Shawn has successfully evaded taking the Psych merchandise out of his father's garage, he is about to lean off his motorcycle and go inside his apartment when he pauses, remembering something. He reaches into his hunter-green jacket pocket and produces the business card the man had given him last night.

 _Peter Bronson, M.D._

Shawn reaches for his phone and dials the number. "Yeah, hey, this is Shawn Spencer. Yeah, I'm the guy from the other night. Everything's fine, but…could we meet up? I have a few questions to ask you."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This is a little early (I usually post on Sundays), but I got excited! I think there'll be one more chapter after this and the story will be over. This one is a little long to make up for the lack of action! QUICK NOTE: I DID use Google Translate for a few phrases in Spanish. Please note that I understand the inaccuracy of Google Translate and if I was fluent in Spanish, I would be using it all the time. If fanfiction was YouTube I'd be using ASL left and right. Also note, Shawn-is-half-Mexican is out of left field, I know. But hey, this is a humor story, not meant to be 100% accurate so please keep that in mind. But alas...anyway, thanks for all the kind reviews, here is chapter three.**

* * *

By eight the next morning, Shawn has showered, dressed, downed two cups of coffee and an egg and sausage sandwich _and_ driven to the hospital. It's the most productive he has felt in weeks.

For a while, he leans against his Norton outside the hospital where Peter works. Last night on the phone Peter had given him instructions on where his office is located and what to tell the man at the main desk in the lobby.

Shawn is hesitant to do this. He is running the risk of telling Peter (or rather, Dr. Bronson) and having him think he is insane. It feels insane already, to be honest, telling a complete stranger about this situation. He won't lie; he has felt some heavy hesitation about it. If anything, he should be telling Gus, his best friend, about all this. He can't exactly pinpoint why he ended up here to begin with. Maybe this all feels like a first step, like acceptance. He _will_ tell Gus, eventually.

With a nod of finality, Shawn makes his way into the hospital.

After handing over his ID, he is directed to the right bank of elevators and then, exhaling a breath and closing his eyes, he presses the right button to go upstairs.

He stands outside Peter's office for a moment before knocking, feeling odd. He isn't used to politeness, which is a funny thing to say, but it's true. Usually whenever Shawn wants to enter a place, he just opens the door. This is different.

"Hello, Shawn," Peter says upon opening the door. "Come on in."

* * *

Peter and Shawn go through the requisite small talk: how are you, I'm doing well, how was getting struck by lightning, not that good, etc, etc.

Then, finally, Peter folds his hands together and eyes Shawn critically. "You seemed upset last night when you called."

Shawn exhales a heavy breath. "Yeah, about that…something's been going on with me."

"Is this related to getting struck by lightning?" Peter questions. "Are you having pain anywhere?"

Shawn vigorously shakes his head. "Nah, nothing like that…it's um…" he falters, unable to say, _I think I have super powers_. Christ, this is insane. Maybe he should leave.

"Shawn?" Peter prompts, looking nervous himself.

"I've been able to hear from far distances," Shawn begins, words falling out of his mouth at a quickening speed, "and see the smallest details from miles. Sometimes it feels like everything around me slows down and I can see actions or movements before anyone else can. The other day I got a paper cut and it healed instantly. I kicked a boulder. A _boulder_. It didn't take any strength. I jumped to impossible heights. It's all been happening so fast, I can barely keep up."

There is a heavy moment of silence and Peter gapes at the man opposite him, confused, obviously, and most likely wondering whether to humor Shawn or admit him to the psychiatric unit ASAP.

Shawn makes a desperate grab for a chrome letter opener on Peter's desk, the glint of the early-morning sun reflecting off its blade. "Watch," he insists before digging the relatively dull but still efficient blade into his palm. He drags it a good few inches downward, wincing as he does so. Then, he releases the letter opener and it _clang_ s onto the cherry wood desk.

Shawn stands, head tilted, almost fearful it won't work, like he has dreamt up the past few days and he'll be downing a handful of anti-psychotics by nightfall.

It does work, however, small sections of the incision knitting back together, nearly microscopic. It must be enough for Peter to see, however, because his mouth opens slightly in astonishment.

Shawn winces as the familiar burn returns to his hand and he shakes it out, bringing his hand closer to himself. Healed. The remnants of the blood are still there and he vigorously wipes at it before thrusting his hand into Peter's line of sight.

"See?" he demands.

Peter stands up, stock-still, expression a mix of awe and confusion.

"I can even hear your assistant in the lobby," Shawn continues, "her name is Ashley, right? She hates doing your 'bitch work' as she calls it. Really, Peter, you make her e-mail your own mother?"

Typically, Shawn's delivery of smart-ass comments such as these is coupled with an I-could-give-a-shit tone but due to his previous reveal, he sounds almost out of breath.

"And over at the front of the building," Shawn continues, "those two guys are supposed to be fixing the exit gate, right? Except that the larger guy, with the plaid hoodie and the orange tech vest? Yeah, he's playing Camel Ride."

Peter closes his mouth, then opens it and then closes it again.

Shawn sits back down.

"I…I…" Peter still can't string together any syllables. "Did you…did your hand just heal?"

Shawn beams.

* * *

"What I would have to surmise is that all of your body's natural abilities: sight, sound, agility, healing, etc," Peter says, forking the last bits of his eggs into his mouth, "have accelerated ten-fold."

Shawn sits opposite Peter with a glass of orange juice, opting not to eat. Peter, however, after witnessing Shawn's magic act, had declared, "We need Denny's."

"Because of the lightning," Shawn says.

"Yes." Peter points his fork at the pseudo psychic. "It's like you accessed a part of yourself that was never before _turned on_ , so to speak. The lightning flipped a switch in you. You are hyper observant – hyper vigilant."

Shawn fiddles with the paper wrapping that came on his straw. "You don't think…" he pauses.

Peter puts down his fork.

"You don't think that all of this could be…harming me in some way?" Shawn finally voices one of his many concerns. "That it's like…overexerting my energy?"

Peter gives Shawn a serious look. "I can't say anything on an assumption. I could tell you that, honestly, from what I've seen, you appear fine, outwardly, but there are obviously multiple and extensive examinations you would have to go through to rule out any serious conditions."

Shawn nods morosely. He doesn't want to go through all of this. It seems like so much in so little time. The only people that even know are himself and Peter. His entire world has shifted and not even his best friend knows.

"How long after you got struck did you notice these new abilities?" Peter keeps his voice low as a waitress saunters by with a pot of coffee.

"The next morning."

Peter rubs a hand over one eye, still looking as astonished as he did back in his office. "Goddamn."

"I know."

There is a prolonged moment of silence and Shawn mulls over what he will do first. Call Gus? Call the station? Whatever happened to that murderer guy? Should he actually order some food?

"Shawn," Peter says gently, knocking him from his thoughts.

Shawn's head jerks to attention.

Peter glances at his watch and says, "Listen, I have to go back to work, but we can pick this up later. Maybe 9PM?"

Shawn is hesitant to end this conversation now but he can't keep Peter from doing his job. For once, Shawn can acknowledge that there are other things happening in the world beside what is currently going on in his own life. He gives the older man a quick nod.

Peter signals for the check and then leans in closely to Shawn. "I won't speak a word of this to anyone, you know that, right? It's illegal, for one and also…" he gives Shawn an appraising look. "This is all just so crazy, I don't think I'd even be able to put the right words together if I wanted to."

Shawn laughs mirthlessly. "Thanks."

Peter gives him a reassuring clap on the shoulder before he tosses a twenty dollar bill onto the table. "We'll figure this out," he says gravely, like it really is important to him. For a few seconds, Shawn actually does feel relieved.

Then Peter leaves and he slumps forward, the roiling feeling returning to his stomach. 9PM feels so far away.

Finally, he wrenches himself away from the table. It'll do him no good to mope in a _Denny's_. What he needs is some Santa Barbara sunshine, maybe a friendly blonde woman whose name starts with a J.

* * *

"Juliet!" Shawn shouts, sliding into the SBPD prescient. Yes, sliding. He owns a pair of Heelys and he is putting them to good use. He is also holding two pineapple smoothies, so he feels pretty skilled at the moment. He and Juliet have gotten to be pretty close since he started working for Chief Vick and sometimes they will go to lunch together or eat it together on her desk. She once admitted she had developed a taste for the famous pineapple smoothies at the place on Sixth Street.

Shawn comes to a halt when he sees something he is immensely confused about.

Gus is sitting across from Juliet at her desk and they look almost…friendly? As in, more-than –just-friends-friendly.

Without much thought, Shawn zooms, still holding the two smoothies. "Gus? Jules? What's going on?"

Gus quickly pushes his chair backwards from Juliet to give himself a wide berth from her, like Shawn hadn't already noticed their familiar stance.

"Uh – Shawn," Juliet smiles shyly. "Gus here is just helping me brush up on my Spanish."

It hits Shawn in spurts. The flyer in that coffee shop. _Spanish lessons_. The plan. _Right_.

"I did happen to see an advertisement for Spanish lessons from one Burton Guster," Shawn says casually, handing one of the smoothies over for Jules, who gratefully accepts it with a smile. "But then, I wasn't so sure I needed to improve my Spanish."

Gus, still looking shocked, manages to say, "You don't know Spanish."

Knowing this will surprise him; Shawn leans back, takes a sip off his smoothie and asks, "Qué te hace decir eso?" ( _What makes you say that_?)

Gus's jaw drops.

Shawn turns to Juliet and says, "Gus no lo sabe todo acerca de mí." ( _Gus doesn't know everything about me)_

Gus looks from Shawn and back to Juliet, clearly confused.

Juliet notes Gus's stupefied expression and responds, "Supongo que no." ( _I guess not_ )

After a long, awkward pause, Juliet explains. "I used some Spanish while on the force in Miami. It was kind of necessary to communicate with people in the area. Gus says he took two years of it in college and I thought I could use him to brush up on my skills. Wait – how do _you_ know Spanish?"

"la familia de mi madre es Española," ( _My mother's family is Spanish)_ Shawn shrugs and shoots Gus a nasty grin. Gus had known about his mother being Spanish but hadn't ever asked Shawn about his knowledge of the language. He loves winning, he really does.

"Wow, I never would have guessed," Juliet slurps on her smoothie loudly and Shawn smiles, turning back to Gus.

"Really, Gus? Spanish lessons?"

Gus returns to himself, puffing out his chest in indignation. "Shawn, we need extra money for the Psych office. We can't pay rent because all of the things you put our logo on!"

Shawn crosses his arms. "I think it was pretty genius of me to make Psych swim trunks."

Gus rolls his eyes. "Your 'genius' got our electricity turned off."

"Oh," Shawn looks thoughtful.

"So I've been giving Spanish lessons to get some extra money," Gus continues. "Although I have to admit, Juliet seems more efficient in the language than she let on."

Juliet grins at him and Shawn clears his throat loudly. They both jump and Shawn changes the subject, "So, Juliet, what came of that guy from yesterday?"

"Thomas?" Juliet sets down her smoothie and reaches for a file folder on her desk. "He confessed right at the scene, where of course, you caught him trying to attack Lassiter and I." her tone suggests she is grateful. "Actually, he confessed to a series of other crimes, too."

"Robbery?" Shawn guesses.

"Yes, actually," Juliet looks surprised. "How did you know?"

Shawn just grins and taps his temple.

Gus looks at his friend and says, "Anyway, Shawn, Juliet and I were just in the middle of something so if you don't mind…"

Shawn opens his mouth to retort that he _does_ mind, actually, when Juliet gives Gus an apologetic look and says, "Actually, Gus, I have to cut our lesson short today. We've got another case."

Shawn feels his hopes soar. Perfect distraction. "Already?"

Juliet shakes her head in amusement at the pseudo-psychic. "Yes, already. Although I don't remember her requesting your assistance."

Shawn shrugs. "She will. So what is it?"

Gus follows Juliet and Shawn to a large corkboard pinned to a back wall. Lassiter is standing in front of it, one hand enclosed around the handle of a coffee mug. When he notices who is behind him, he curses, "Aw, hell."

"Hey, Lassie!" Shawn greets, feeling relief seep through his veins, akin to the moments when he has a sip of coffee after a particularly exhausting day. "How are you today?"

"O'Hara," Lassiter looks at Juliet. "Vick didn't ask for his help. He shouldn't even be looking at this."

Juliet looks chastened but then gives Shawn a conspiratorial wink. God, he really might love this woman.

"Actually, Lassiter, I presumed Vick _would_ ask, given the nature of Shawn's observant actions yesterday."

"Yeah, yeah, he was a hero for two minutes," Lassiter snipes. "Anyone could have seen that bastard reaching for his knife."

"Ah, but _you_ didn't," Shawn reminds the detective smugly.

Lassiter scowls before turning to face the corkboard. Juliet stands beside him and gives them the lowdown.

"Our guy, Thomas, admitted he was involved in a string of robberies. However, we have yet to find the other members of said robberies. Their typical MO is to terrorize as much as possible, which, of course, never bodes well for the people inside the bank." She gestures to the photos of the victims below, gunshot wounds evident. "They have yet to strike in Santa Barbara but from what we can pinpoint on the map, they are getting closer and closer."

"Then why did Thomas stray from the team?" Shawn is genuinely curious.

"He was stupid," Lassiter says without turning around. "Had some vendetta with that woman he killed. Didn't tell his buddies about it. From what we can gather, he never killed anyone at the bank robberies. His work was sloppy."

Juliet turns to Shawn, eyes bright. "So what do you think, Shawn? Maybe you could get some insight as to what bank they'll go to next?"

Normally, Shawn would swoon and sigh and dance around, yelling about spirits and psychic gleaning but actually, he might just be able to get this one. "Yes," he says solemnly, his tone surprising both the detectives and Gus.

* * *

Gus wants to go to lunch with Shawn after their meeting with Jules and Lassiter and he doesn't object. He feels oddly wired again, as if he needs to be prepared for something colossal. Perhaps he should mention this to Peter later.

Once Gus sits down with his food, he gives Shawn a suspicious look.

Shawn pauses, burger a few inches from his mouth. "What?"

"You've been acting strange," Gus blurts, looking almost guilty for saying so.

Shawn fiddles with the straw in his soda, not knowing what to say. Should he tell Gus, just after telling Peter? What if Gus tells someone else? What if everyone thinks he's crazy? How will he explain it? It hadn't seemed so difficult with Peter; he was just a stranger, not someone used to his antics and his lies.

"Shawn?" Gus looks genuinely concerned now.

Shawn takes a bite out his burger and levels Gus with a look. "Some stuff has been going on with me, Gus."

Gus hasn't even touched his food. He doesn't seem to understand this version of Shawn, so different from his usual bouncing, extroverted persona. It's like something turned down Shawn's volume, diminished his enthusiasm. "I'm listening," he says carefully.

Shawn pushes a palm into his face. "Ugh, I don't know _how_ to – _why_ I – I mean…" he looks flustered and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. "I'm probably going crazy, I really mean that."

Gus can't stop gawking at his friend. "How long have you feeling been this way?" he asks.

Shawn doesn't seem to be listening. "And I thought, I should probably tell Gus, but how am I _supposed_ to, am I even supposed to?"

"Shawn…" Gus is getting worried.

Shawn sighs and looks at his friend wearily. "Gus, I might actually be going crazy."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, I know this will sound insane, but you have to understand, I'm not lying," Shawn says forcefully.

"Okay," Gus says gently, "what is it, Shawn?"

Shawn rips apart the bun on his hamburger as he talks. "A few days ago, I got struck by lightning."

Gus's eyes widen.

"I went to the hospital and they told me it didn't look good at first but then all of a sudden I woke up again."

"You didn't call me?" Gus demands. "Or your father?"

"Let me finish," Shawn pleads, looking exhausted.

Gus nods.

"Then the next day, all of these strange things started happening to me. I was able to hear my neighbor from across the street even though she was in her house. I was breaking things that I should not have been able to. I hurt my hand and it healed instantly. I was jumping from impossible heights – I mean, I work out, but not _that_ much. Then there's this weird thing where stuff just slows down and it's like I know when something is going to happen before it does."

Gus sort of smiles and reaches for his drink. "Wow, Shawn."

"What?" Shawn is instantly defensive.

"You almost had me there," Gus chews a fry thoughtfully. "Superpowers from getting struck by lightning? Come on."

"Gus…" Shawn says slowly. "I'm not joking."

"Yes you are," Gus says, voice taking on a quivering tone, almost afraid. "You have to be joking. This kind of thing doesn't happen in real life."

"I met a man the night I got struck," Shawn continues on, almost ignoring what Gus is saying, "and I told him what's happening. We're supposed to meet later to make sure that everything is okay."

Gus can't seem to piece all of this new information together. "And you didn't tell me?"

Shawn pushes his food away. "I wanted to! Honestly, Gus, I thought I had schizophrenia or something. I'm not entirely sure that I'm wrong!"

"When are you supposed to meet this doctor?" Gus asks, voice suddenly taking an authoritative tone.

"Nine tonight, why?"

"I'm coming with you." Gus sounds determined. "Whatever you're going through, I'm going to be there too. I'm your brother, man."

Shawn has a suspicious feeling in his throat and he swallows it away. "Thanks, Gus."

"So…what did you say about jumping really high?"

* * *

Shawn slowly grins.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Sort of."

"Shawn…"

"I'm like38% sure."

"That's not enough!"

"Ehh…"

"You are not jumping off a building, Shawn!"

"Take care of my pineapple plant!"

Shawn and Gus are on the outskirts of Santa Barbara, at a smattering of buildings that are seemingly abandoned and close together. Shawn knew about this place (Gus didn't bother to ask) and since it's only the afternoon, he can't be in the middle of the city vaulting his body from rooftop to rooftop.

He also didn't bother to tell Gus that he never actually has done this. Yet.

After shouting to his best friend about a pineapple plant he keeps in the corner of his kitchen, Shawn digs his Nikes into the pavement below him and surveys the building across from them. This shouldn't be that difficult, right? He's jumped…rocks. Right. This is just like jumping on those rocks at the beach.

Without giving it more thought than that, Shawn takes a running leap and jumps to the next building's rooftop. The burst of exhilaration is like when he was a kid and jumped off the diving board: feeling slightly terrified and excited at the same time. His legs don't flail all around – in fact, he feels confident, legs stuck straight out, eyes ahead at the rooftop (or, 'landing pad' as he has just now decided he will call them).

"Whoohoo!" Shawn yells, the moment feeling both extremely slow and intensely fast. He sails over the surrounding concrete border of the rooftop and lands, feet-first like a gymnast. "YESSS!" he shouts, arms raised. "Oh my _God_ , did you see that buddy?"

Gus, meanwhile, is trying not to freak out.

He has to admit, he had _some_ skepticism after he and Shawn left the burger restaurant. How could Shawn be serious? Superpowers? Getting struck by lightning? With Shawn, however, anything can be possible. The leap he just made would have been impossible for an average human to make.

However, given that Gus _just_ found out about the superpowers thing, he is _freaking out_. Seeing Shawn take that jump was like watching a man decide to plummet to his death. Honestly, he had already been crafting apologies to Henry.

 _I'm sorry, Mr. Spencer, I could have stopped him, but I didn't, I just watched him jump…yes, I_ did _believe he had superpowers, crazy right?!_

Shawn is jumping to the next building rooftop and Gus shouts desperately, "Shawn!" but of course the man can't hear him. He watches, helpless yet again, but sighs in relief when Shawn makes it.

Shawn looks as if he has been doing this for years: effortlessly flinging his body from one rooftop to the next, legs planted firmly out and arms in the air like wings. He whoops in delight every time he reaches a new rooftop and Gus can't close his mouth; his surprise is written in his every feature.

"Okay, I'm coming back!" Shawn calls from three or four buildings away but Gus doesn't seem to hear him. He shrugs and then jumps, once, twice, three times, before taking a running leap and latching onto his best friend when he lands.

"Aghhh!" Gus shouts as they both collapse onto the ground.

"Oh my _God_ , did you see that?" Shawn exclaims, completely exhilarated. "I can't believe I did that!"

Gus grumbles to himself and rubs stray dirt off of his dress pants. "Yes, I saw it," he snaps, "and I nearly had a heart attack! Do you know how dangerous that is?"

Shawn gives himself a sweeping gesture of his arms. "Gus, dude, didn't you hear what I told you? Do you know what this means? This is actually happening. Gus!"

Gus looks freaked out. "Shawn, you need to calm down."

Shawn's chest is rising and falling heavily. "Gus – I – I can't! This means I'm not crazy, right? You saw that, right?"

Gus finds himself smiling. "Yes, Shawn, I saw it."

Shawn puts out his fist for Gus to bump. "Come on," he prods and Gus bumps it, still feeling like this may all be a really elaborate, weird dream.

Suddenly, Gus realizes something. "Wait – Shawn. So _that_ 's how you caught the murderer the other day?"

Shawn shakes his head. "Nah, I saw him getting away."

Gus looks confused. "But how?"

"Buddy, I told you, I can see from far distances. I could see him trying to get away. And then later, everything kind of slowed down, like I explained? I knew that Thomas was pulling a knife out of his pants but I guess to everyone else he just looked like he was sitting there."

"Can you control it?" Gus asks. "Like turn it on and off?"

Shawn runs a hand through his hair, thinking. "I did the other day. This is all so new, man; I'm not sure what to do."

"So you went to this Peter guy?"

"He almost ran me off the road the other night," Shawn explains and Gus's expression takes on one of anger. "Let me explain! It was storming pretty badly so I got out of the way and he came out of his car to ask if I was alright but that was when I got struck by lightning."

"And then?" Gus prompts.

"He gave me his card and told me to call him if I needed anything. I didn't know what to do or who to tell, so I called him."

"What do you think will happen?" Gus asks.

Shawn shrugs. "I just want to make sure I'm not actually hallucinating."

"Shawn," Gus says slowly. "I can tell you that right now. I just saw you leap across buildings." His voice holds a tinge of awe and Shawn can't help but grin at his best friend.

"Yeah," he says softly. "Yeah you did."

* * *

While still on the rooftop, Shawn receives a call from Juliet. Someone in downtown Santa Barbara reported some suspicious-looking men bordering one of the many banks. They have a strong feeling this is the gang that they had had their eye on.

Shawn and Gus arrive after the show has already begun. Hostages have been taken, demands given, all that. Juliet, Lassiter, Chief Vick and a smattering of SBPD officers are clustered around the front entrance.

Juliet and Lassiter don't say anything at first and Gus whispers, "Can you see in there? What's happening?"

Some officers have binoculars and the distance between the many police vehicles and the bank is not quite that far. However, Shawn can see the details.

"There are four guys. One man is at the counter with a bank teller, one at the door, and two around the circle of people that didn't escape. Somebody must have managed to get out the back door because there's a nick at the side of it and some kinds of indents on the wall like they slammed open the door hard on their way out."

"Damn," Gus says.

"I should go in. Create a distraction," Shawn says quickly before bounding out of sight. Gus doesn't have time to say anything. Juliet, Lassiter and the gang are all preoccupied and don't notice as Shawn sneaks away from the crowd of officers.

"Damn it, Shawn," Gus says under his breath. He tries to look casual but no one is paying him any mind besides. Not thinking much about it, he takes after Shawn's retreating back, following the plaid-patterned shirt of his best friend. Almost impossibly, Gus catches up to Shawn, they duck behind a nearby parked car and then book it to the back of the building before anyone catches a glimpse of them.

"Alright," Gus pants, "what's the plan?"

Shawn isn't panting – does he have super speed, too? Gus is curious. Or does he just not feel exhausted anymore?

Shawn looks up from the ground. "Am I supposed to have a plan?"

Gus glares at Shawn. "Are you serious? If you go in there, you will get hurt, Shawn!"

Smiling, Shawn responds, "Don't worry Gus; I can heal." He hides the apprehensive expression on his face from his friend as he reaches the door.

"Shawn!" Gus reaches for his shirt sleeve but it slides between his fingers. Shawn continues ahead, hand at the knob.

"We shouldn't be doing this!" Gus whispers, the door now slightly ajar.

Shawn gives him his trademark smirk. "When has that ever stopped us?" he then disappears inside the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Last chapter :)**

* * *

Juliet, Lassiter and Chief Vick talk amongst themselves for a few minutes, exchanging what information they have gathered about the robbery ring. They are so involved in doing this that they don't notice that both Shawn and Gus have disappeared from view. It isn't until Lassiter snipes something like, "O'Hara, was it really necessary to get Spencer down here?" that anybody notices.

Juliet turns to look at where Shawn was previously standing and instead stares at the pavement. "That's weird," she says, petite features crinkling in confusion. "Where are Shawn and Gus?"

 _Meanwhile…_

As soon as Shawn enters the back of the building, Gus is right behind him. It's always been like this, so it only makes sense; Shawn makes the first step and, blindly, Gus follows, no matter how bleak the outcome looks.

Right now, it looks _really_ bleak.

The door they walk into leads to what is presumably the break room. There are a few rows of vending machines lined up at the wall and Shawn stops at one and cocks his head. "You know what," he says airily. "I haven't had a Zebra Cake since I was nine. Do you think they taste the same?"

Gus puts his palm over his eyes. "Oh my _God_ , Shawn."

Shawn rummages through his pocket and produces two quarters. "Damn, it's seventy-five cents. When did these get so expensive?"

"Shouldn't we be worrying about, oh, I don't know, the armed and dangerous men that are a few feet away from us? And the fact that they can probably hear…" Gus's voice trails off and he slowly turns around, somehow already expecting this.

The large, six foot three man with impossibly foreboding biceps is standing at the threshold of the doorway, arms crossed and sporting an impressive scowl.

"Aw, hell," Shawn mutters. "Hey, buddy; you wouldn't happen to have a quarter would you?"

The man takes Shawn and Gus out of the breakroom and into the adjoining area, which is currently housing the hostages. He pushes them roughly onto the floor.

"Hey – what the hell?" the man behind the counter asks, hand flitting to his side where his gun is located.

"Found these two in the breakroom," the scowl is still on his face. "Don't know how we missed 'em."

Shawn raises his head and here he is: the star performer. He can act, goddamn he can act.

"Oh, don't mind us," Shawn says, gesturing to himself and Gus. "We were just stopping by. Heard there was a swell party going on in here and didn't want to miss all the fun."

The scowling man kicks Shawn directly in his stomach and he wheezes, clutching himself protectively.

Gus looks on in horror and thinks, _outcome_ really _bleak now_.

The man stalks away and Gus scoots closer to Shawn, his mouth practically skimming his best friend's ear. "Are you okay?" he whispers urgently. Shawn is constantly trying to prove to the world that he is invincible but Gus has seen him injured far too many times to believe it.

Shawn wrenches himself out of the fetal position he is in slowly, trying not to jar his injury further. "Yeah," he says. "I'm alright."

Gus's mouth sets in a firm line. He is feeling the familiar wave of anger he gets after following Shawn into a disaster. He wants to be furious and scream at Shawn but, once again, Shawn didn't drag him in, not really. Gus followed because he can't imagine Shawn going on these expeditions alone.

"What are we going to do?" Gus persists, unable to sit in silence.

Shawn hesitates.

Gus feels himself becoming more anxious than angry. "You didn't even think about it?"

Shawn shrugs, uncharacteristically silent. Gus is suddenly worried that this will all be his responsibility now. His best friend has been having a weird couple of days. He remembers Shawn mentioning going to the doctor and he wonders if they will make it home by then.

Nearby, patrons of the bank are in clusters. A few older women stick together, heads bowed, perhaps praying. A mother and two children are closest to the door; most likely they had been trying to get away when the action started. A man seemingly Shawn's age is trembling violently next to Gus and he feels the urge to say something, even though it probably won't do any good.

"It'll be alright," Gus says to the man adjacent to him. "My buddy and I get out of these types of situations for a living." He jerks his thumb towards Shawn as a reference but Shawn still has a frozen expression on his face, as if he became terrified suddenly and then someone put him on pause.

The man, still trembling, gives Gus a raise of his eyebrows.

"He doesn't…normally look like that," Gus explains feebly.

The man looks over at Shawn and then back at Gus as if to say, _yeah, right_.

Shawn snaps to sudden attention like a rubber band. "Gus, I've got a plan!" he says excitedly, like he hadn't just been sitting there completely zoned out.

"Shawn," Gus says slowly, not understanding these new habits of his best friend. But Shawn ignores him. His eyes are bright and his movements are spastic. He's back; he's ready to act again.

"I figured it out, Gus," he says, voice euphoric. "I can do this."

At that moment, the man that had caught them in the breakroom makes a lunge for the woman and children. The woman has been inching the door open with her shoe, prying it bit by bit, perhaps to give her children space to flee when no one is watching. Gus's stomach clenches as he realizes the man lunging has his gun raised.

Shawn dives in, running and leaping onto the man's back before taking both arms and latching them around his neck. The man, choking, lunges backwards and attempts to shake the pseudo-psychic off but Shawn won't let go. Shawn makes a desperate grab for the handgun but he can't quite reach it and is thrust onto the floor when the other man gets the upper hand. He aims his gun at Shawn.

"Wait," Shawn pleads, sitting up, hand raised.

The man shoots.

Shawn's body jolts and he collapses onto the floor. Screams are heard throughout the bank. The mother and her children bolt out of the front entrance. The man behind the desk abandons the phone and starts blindly shooting at the ceiling and floors, scaring the other civilians into staying put.

Gus can feel his heart palpitating. His best friend just got shot in the chest.

Chaos is unfolding around him as the hostages either duck for cover from the bullets or simply break for an exit. No one else seems to have been injured yet but Gus only has eyes for Shawn as he inches toward him, head tucked into his chest. It's an awkward maneuver and it's terrifying but suddenly two of the gang robbers are against each other and the third one is attempting to break them apart. So he has some time.

The last member of the group is lingering by the door, looking outside and frantically yelling incoherent obscenities to his friends who are too busy trying to shoot each other. Periodically he fires a stray bullet or two to cause more chaos and outside, the SBPD are boiling. It isn't protocol to rush in and spray some of their own bullets, but Lassiter really looks as if he is itching to. Orders are being shouted and police officers and detectives are running rampant.

Without putting much thought into it, Gus wraps his hands underneath the armpits of his best friend and, as carefully as he can manage, forcing himself not to look down at his friend's bleeding chest, drags him into a nearby office. He deposits Shawn below the window and frantically stacks two chairs on top of each other at the door.

Shawn's eyes have been closed since he was shot and his chest is impossibly still. Gus chokes back the bile rising from his throat. Of course it's always been possible that Shawn could injure himself or yes, even die, while on one of these dangerous expeditions. Of course Gus had thought countless times that they actually _would_ die or at least suffer a broken bone or two. They never had.

Gus supposes this is fate finally catching up to them.

He kneels down to him, ear to his chest, checking for a heartbeat. He remembers Shawn's reveal just hours ago, the _I have superpowers_ thing. He had mentioned something about healing, hadn't he? His thoughts are too muddled to parse anything out. He numbly places his hands over Shawn's chest to begin to make compressions. The crimson blood is sliding and gathering in the places where Gus attempts to put his hands and he breathes through his mouth before he the smell takes harbor in his nostrils.

He pumps his hands once, twice, three times. "Shit," he says, deviating from the usual script people are supposed to have for these situations. _Stay with me, hold on_ and _damn it, don't die on me_ all sound false in his mind.

The chaos from outside of the office door seems to quiet down. There are pounding footsteps and muffled shouting but Gus doesn't give it much thought. His best friend is sprawled out on the floor with a gunshot wound. There are bigger things to think about.

Gus does what he learned in his CPR safety course but nothing seems to be rousing Shawn. He checks for a pulse two times but Shawn looks to be, well, dead.

At that moment, Henry Spencer busts down the door.

Gus pauses in his chest compressions, wondering how in the hell Henry Spencer got here. How did he get down here and so quickly? How much time has passed? What happened to everyone else in the building? It feels like he is thinking for a prolonged amount of time but it is only seconds that Henry stands at the now busted doors, kicks the chairs aside and runs to Shawn's prone body.

"What happened?" Henry demands, hands running up and down Shawn's body, before his eyes settle on the large wound on his son's chest.

Gus can't speak for a moment but then sputters, "He was shot. He wasn't breathing…I tried to give him CPR but…" he looks at Henry, guilt in his eyes.

Henry doesn't want to give up on his son and he attempts chest compressions, too. He gives strong, heavy pumps of his hands, breathing life into Shawn and beginning again.

"Damn it," he whispers, furiously pumping his hands against his son's heart. "Christ," he looks as disappointed and scared as Gus feels, knowing that this is a fruitless attempt but not ready to admit it, at least not out loud.

Finally, Henry's hands, slimy in Shawn's blood, slide off and rest in his lap. He seems stunned, immovable.

Gus is in shock himself but can't imagine how Henry feels. "Mr. Spencer…" he begins feebly, wondering how to comfort him. Suddenly, he is interrupted by a loud coughing noise and Gus looks up from the floor but Henry isn't the one coughing.

Shawn is coughing and leaning up from the floor, hand on his chest in confusion. His eyes search the room wildly and Henry scoots closer to his son. "Shawn – Shawn, are you okay?" Henry asks urgently, not thinking that, mere moments ago, Shawn had been dead.

Shawn shakes his head in confusion and coughs even louder than before. He clears his throat dramatically, much the way someone would when they have the common cold. He spits something into his palm and Gus leans in closer to see what it is.

A bullet.

" _Ho-ly_ shit," Gus says aloud.

Henry looks both relieved and angry. "What – what the hell is going _on_?!" he demands, swiveling from Gus and then back to Shawn.

Shawn picks the bullet up and pinches it between two fingers, scrutinizing it with the intensity of a CSI lab tech.

"Shawn," Henry says, sounding desperate.

Shawn turns to his father as if he is hearing him for the first time. "Dad," he says slowly. "Boy do I have a story to tell you."

* * *

Shawn reluctantly rides in an ambulance to the hospital. He is already healed, the only evidence of his getting shot the remnant streaks of blood marring his skin. Henry sits next to him the whole way, a firm expression on his face. Gus sits in the front seat of the ambulance, chatting amicably with the EMT driving about proper medication for back pain.

Shawn had explained what he could to Henry before the SBPD found them in the cramped office. Before anyone could have noticed, he slipped the bullet in his back pocket. Juliet and Chief Vick were noticeably concerned while Lassiter had seemed suspicious.

At the hospital, Shawn is given a clean bill of health and allowed to go home. The doctors are just as baffled as they were when he got struck by lightning. They murmur their suspicions to each other as they walk by and Henry glares at them until they are gone.

The SBPD doesn't ask Shawn for his statement, instead gently reassuring him that they will ask for it at a later time when he feels more comfortable.

It isn't until they arrive to Henry's house that everyone finally speaks.

Henry makes some coffee, the loud, rumbling of the maker the only noise in the entire house. Henry pours himself and Gus a mug but doesn't offer any to Shawn. Once he sits down, he sighs heavily and pours some sugar into his mug before asking, "Alright, what the hell, Shawn?"

"To be fair, all of this started happening a few days ago," Shawn admits, wishing he had a mug to hide behind. He doubts Henry will allow him that concession.

Henry raises an eyebrow. "Is that why you were acting strange the other day?"

Shawn shrugs. "I guess so."

Henry suddenly turns to Gus. "And you knew about this?"

Gus looks down at his drink, swirling the mixture with a nearby spoon. "I just found out today. Shawn has had some…interesting developments."

"Like the healing," Henry says flatly.

Shawn sticks out a hand, ticking things off on his fingers. "Seeing from far distances, hearing from far distances, jumping abnormally high, excessive strength and healing."

"This is because of you getting struck by lightning," Henry has that same, flat tone.

Shawn studies his father for a moment. "Do you believe me?" he asks. The cadence of his voice is so honest that Henry gives pause. This is his son. He should feel no reason not to believe him, despite how ludicrous the entire situation is.

"Yes," he finally admits, surprising both Gus and Shawn.

"I'm supposed to be seeing a doctor tonight," Shawn says, as if he is suddenly remembering. Going to see Peter had been the plan this morning but that now seems like a lifetime ago. Peter probably won't be too pleased to hear that Shawn got shot in the chest today.

"You haven't seen a doctor yet?" Henry asks incredulously. His son is so stupidly careless with his own life that Henry is perpetually doing the worrying for him.

Shawn explains his experience at the hospital after getting struck by lightning and the mysterious symptoms afterward. He tells Henry who Peter is and what he had offered to do to help Shawn. Throughout all this, Shawn's tone of voice is clipped and measured, calculating like a police detective. Maybe even a little weary. Henry supposes this makes sense but can't help but ask his son, "Are you okay?"

Shawn's eyes flit up from looking down at the table.

Henry repeats himself, slower this time. "Are. You. Okay?" he will loathe himself forever if he doesn't ask now and fuck the attitude they've kept with each other these past few months. They always shy away from the big things, the questions with too many variables or the ones that hold any real emotional weight. Henry has been worried about his son and it isn't a crime to do so.

Shawn seems just as surprised as Henry feels but answers honestly. "It's been a weird few days but I'm surprisingly doing alright, all things considering." His eyes momentarily flash down to his chest where the bullet had been. It's still in his shirt pocket, right now, and Henry can see the small outline of it. It makes him feel nauseous. He pushes his coffee away.

Henry stares straight ahead for a few moments, absently thinking about Madeline. Maybe he should call her. This is her son, too. He won't, though. He'll leave that responsibility up to Shawn. Even after they separated, if Shawn got injured or failed another class and needed both parents on the scene, Henry had always been hesitant to call. She had walked out of their lives so seamlessly it almost felt like she had never been there at all. She would be an unnatural fit in this kitchen, right now.

Shawn and Gus exchange a look between each other. Then, Shawn looks down at his watch.

"Hey dad, mind giving me a ride somewhere?"

* * *

Peter is anxiously pacing back and forth in his cramped office when Shawn, Gus and Henry arrive in the threshold of the doorway.

"Shawn!" Peter exclaims, lunging toward him like they've known each other all their lives. Gus raises an eyebrow at his actions but Peter dismisses him. He had seen the news coverage of the younger man having been shot at the scene of a crime but walking away, virtually fine. He knows this has something to do with the situation Shawn had informed him of this morning.

"Hey," Shawn raises his hands. "I'm alright, doc."

Peter's eyes scan him from his scalp to his toenails, dubious. If what Shawn had said this morning was true, that his body may be exerting too much energy for an average human, then they had a hell of a problem on their hands. Shawn was a thrill-seeker, a hell-chaser. A bullet tearing through his chest cavity was not a step in the right direction.

Henry sticks out his rough palm to greet the doctor. "Henry Spencer," he says brusquely. "I'm Shawn's father."

Peter looks hesitant, unsure of what Shawn has told the men flanking his sides.

Shawn waves his hand airily. "It's cool; I told them already."

Peter still looks hesitant, but gestures that they sit down. There are only two chairs and Gus makes to sit in the one opposite Shawn until Henry glares him into standing behind them. Gus crosses his arms, looking miffed.

"So," Peter clears his throat awkwardly. "It should be obvious that I know about what happened earlier."

Shawn nods, looking chastised. "I had everything under control."

Henry snorts.

Peter looks from father to son, noting that this must be a familiar pattern. "And why would you think that?"

"I had a plan of getting control of the scene," Shawn says, talking like a detective, surprising both Henry and Gus. "It was when the mother and her children in the corner made things difficult. They were trying to get away, and rightfully so, but the other guys didn't like that too much."

"And then you got in the middle of it," Peter says.

Shawn shrugs. "I did what I had to do."

Henry rolls his eyes.

"Do you feel any residual pain?" Peter asks Shawn. "Any struggles with movement?" he lifts himself up from the chair. "Would you mind if I…?"

Shawn shrugs and unbuttons his checkered shirt, allowing the doctor a close look at his chest. He has been exercising, taking care of his body and it shows. Gus pretends like he doesn't notice but Henry can't help but say something.

"Well," he remarks, "looks like you decided to stop binging on the McDonald's dollar menu." His comment is more cutting than he intended. Shawn ducks his head, embarrassed and Peter shoots Henry a stern look.

Henry folds in on himself, resolutely silent.

"Well," Peter says softly, examining Shawn's skin with intensity. "There's not even a mark." He taps various spots on Shawn's chest, asking him if he feels any pain. He checks his breathing. He asks him to jump and down and do some jumping jacks. It makes Shawn feel ridiculous but Peter doesn't want to be the one responsible if Shawn suddenly slumps to the floor and never rises.

Shawn reaches into his shirt pocket and places the bullet in the doctor's hand silently.

"This was…?" Peter's eyes lift and land on Shawn's chest. The pseudo-psychic nods.

"God _damn_ ," Peter hisses, picking it up and examining it, end to end. "How did your body expel this?"

Shawn looks solemn. "I coughed it out."

Peter looks up to Gus. "I heard you were there, too."

Gus nods.

"Were you there when he was shot? How long was he unconscious?"

Gus looks hesitant but then his expression smooths out. "Maybe twenty-five minutes, thirty at the most."

"What happened during? Afterwards?"

"He immediately went unconscious. I managed to get him into a different room when the chaos continued and he wasn't breathing. I tried to do CPR but nothing was working. Henry," he jerked his head toward him, "tried CPR too when he showed up. We stopped for maybe a minute and then Shawn woke up." Gus's expression is stony and Peter can only assume that he is remembering the incident again.

"That was when you coughed it out," Peter assumes.

Shawn nods.

Peter grabs a nearby otoscope and beckons Shawn, "Open." Shawn opens his mouth and Peter examines his throat carefully and his tonsils. "Everything looks normal," Peter places a hand on Shawn's shoulder, pivoting him so that he can glance within his ears as well. Finally, he stands up and appraises Shawn.

"Outwardly, you appear fine," Peter says. "But if you're still concerned about what we talked about earlier, and at this point, I know I am, we need to run some tests."

Henry scowls. "What did you talk about earlier?"

Shawn looks to Peter, as if he is now his spokesman.

"Well," Peter chooses his words carefully, rightfully assuming that Henry Spencer has a short fuse and doesn't want to upset him. "Shawn and I are concerned that, with these new abilities, his body may be having adverse reactions. I'm sure it will give everyone a peace of mind if we run some tests to rule out that hypothesis."

"Shawn," Henry says, "you didn't mention that to me."

"I was kind of preoccupied with other things today, dad," Shawn lets out a groan of frustration.

Peter waits silently.

"Okay," Henry raises his hands in surrender.

* * *

Peter takes Shawn's blood. He tests his sugar, his cholesterol. He makes him run on a treadmill. He tests his hearing and his sight (impeccable) and his reflexes. He scans his chest and his brain. He x-rays virtually every expanse of Shawn's body. He listens to his breathing; he listens for a heart murmur. He checks for lumps in irregular places, possible tumors. He spends four and a half hours swinging Shawn from one area of the hospital to the next, Henry and Gus dutifully trailing behind. Every test comes up negative, every glance at his throat or his ear is normal. Peter does every exam he can think of until Shawn is standing in front of him in a nearby breakroom, panting, "Can we take a break?"

Peter looks down at the clipboard in his hand. "I'll keep in touch with you, Shawn. Some of the exam's results should come back in a few days."

Shawn nods, looking weary.

Peter rests a hand on his shoulder. "Listen, from what I can surmise, you are perfectly fine. You obviously have some new changes in your life but, otherwise, you seem…normal. As normal as you can be, anyway."

Shawn doesn't say anything.

Peter steps closer so that Henry and Gus cannot hear. "Again, this goes without saying, but I will not speak a word of this to anyone. This is your personal business and the only people that have to know can be the ones standing in this room."

Finally, Shawn looks up from the floor and nods. "I know." He seems hesitant but then finally says, "Thank you."

Peter smiles. "Hey, I said if you ever needed anything to call me, didn't I?" they awkwardly reach to shake hands but then move in for a hug but then both men settle for clumsily embracing while patting each other's backs.

Henry, Shawn and Gus say their goodbyes to Peter and, as they walk away, Peter pulls the bullet Shawn had handed him out of his pocket. He rolls it back and forth, between his palms.

"Goddamn," he says to no one.

* * *

What follows are an odd couple of days.

Henry insists that Shawn stay with him in his house, and, surprisingly, Shawn agrees. Gus goes back to his apartment and to work. Juliet and Lassiter take Shawn's statement. Shawn wakes up early in the morning, is gone all day and appears long after his father has made dinner and settled down in his armchair to watch TV.

Shawn has to admit, he goes off the grid for a few days. The past week was a lot of things at once. He won't lie and say that he's never had a hectic few days (Ying and Yang still come to mind) but this feels…strange. Even his father takes note of his strange proceedings but doesn't say much.

Then, one day, Shawn snaps back like a rubber band, like always.

His Norton putters up to the front entrance of the police station and for a moment, he sits there, hesitant. He hopes that Juliet or Lassiter don't remark on his absence. He doesn't feel like explaining it – he might not even know how. He hops off, casting aside his helmet and stopping when he sees, from quite a far distance, a man that has Lassiter's build leaning against the back of the building. A puff of smoke floats in front of him before a cigarette drops and an Italian leather loafer grinds it out. The man steps away and Shawn realizes, it _is_ Lassiter.

Oh, this is going to be good.

Shawn walks into the SBPD, greeting familiar faces along the way. He says hello to Cindy the receptionist with six dogs and a boyfriend that likes to dress up as Doctor Who, Lars, the janitor with the pet chinchilla that mops every morning at nine exactly and finally Buzz, who is walking by with a stack of manila envelopes bursting at the seams.

"Hey, Shawn!" Buzz raises a hand but the maneuver causes him to lose grip of one of the folders and the rest tumble down onto the tiled floor. Papers fly like feathers and Buzz looks up helplessly.

Shawn sighs but moves to help the man. They are sifting through the papers, putting them into the proper places when Lassiter storms by. Shawn jumps upright, seeking his opportunity.

"Lassieface!" he shouts, smile a foot long. He's back.

Lassiter doesn't bother turning around, instead choosing to mumble to himself, "No, no, not today…"

"Oh, _yes_ ," Shawn says exuberantly, running alongside the detective. "And might I just say, Lassiter, you might be able to run away faster if, you know, you didn't smoke so much."

Lassiter stops on a dime. When he speaks to Shawn, he grits his teeth so hard Shawn wonders if they will snap. "What. Did. You. Just. Say?" he demands.

Shawn grins. "Aw, Lassie, I'm just looking out for you. Smoking kills, you know." He takes note of the yellowing on Lassiter's fingers and wonders how long this has gone on. Months, most likely.

"Smoking?" Juliet is rounding the corner, papers in one hand, coffee in the other.

"You know Lassiter smokes?" Shawn is rubbing it in and he loves it, he really does.

Lassiter pales slightly.

"Carlton, you smoke?" Juliet is genuinely surprised and Shawn wonders how so many things slip past a detective as talented as she.

Lassiter hesitates, looking a mix between annoyed and mortified. "I used to smoke, yes. I quit some time ago and now and again I…relapse." Ducking his head, he walks away briskly and Juliet and Shawn look after him, confused.

Once Lassiter is gone, Juliet checks up on Shawn, asking how his health has been after the incident at the bank. They had arrested the robbery gang and all the loose ends had been tied up but Shawn still felt at odds. This probably has more to do with the whole superpowers situation, he knows, but he feels a little guilty almost, not letting Juliet in on it.

Shawn lingers around the station for a few more hours, causing a general nuisance and eventually leaving with the promise to turn up in the event of a new case. He stands outside the entrance, head tilted, feeling odd, feeling like something is amiss.

* * *

Over the next few days, things change.

Shawn stops hearing his next-door neighbor puttering around in her kitchen, rooting in the cabinets for her specialty coffee blend. It's not something he ever thought he would miss – but he had gotten used to it and now, when he wakes in the morning, the only noise he hears is the humming of the air conditioner.

It isn't just his neighbor that he has stopped hearing. It is…many people, many things. Often, he didn't have to try to hear anyone, he could hear noises from all different directions but when he stands in the middle of a nearby convenience store with a soda in one hand and a bag of popcorn in the other, he doesn't hear anything. He can hear the clerk at the register talking about hail storms with the tattooed veterinarian buying Slim Jims. He can hear a mother bargaining with her child in the candy aisle. He can faintly hear a man in the parking lot cursing at the total cost of the gas he just put into his truck. But really, he cannot hear much more than he did before.

His impressive sight soon follows – it decreases so much that Shawn worries he may need glasses. If he squints, he can read signs in the distance. But he can't tell what the blonde woman down the street is texting on her phone or see the construction men miles away bickering over attractive celebrities.

In only a few days, Shawn's impressive abilities have dwindled.

He goes to Peter in a panic, convinced this has been all of his own doing, that he somehow made himself regress by getting shot that day. Plaguing him the entire drive to the hospital is the thought, _what if he gets hurt again and has no healing powers to save the day?_

Peter is just as puzzled as Shawn. He runs him down the list of tests he did only a week and a half ago and everything turns out normal. His hearing and vision are that of an average man, no longer superhuman. His physical strength and agility, however, are mostly intact. With a simple pinprick, it is easily discernable that his healing abilities are also intact. Shawn wonders why that is but Peter has no answers for him; he cannot explain the strange anomaly either.

"Perhaps this was leftover energy made by the lightning," is Peter's hasty explanation. "Maybe your body is returning to normalcy."

Shawn has to admit, the past few month has been strange for him. It has been confusing and exhilarating, exhausting and overall unbelievable. But _normal_? Normal is so… _boring_. So…well, _normal._ Shawn can't recall a time when he has ever used that word to describe his life.

He leaves Peter's office, feeling disconsolate. The news he just received makes him feel discouraged and ultimately, there isn't much he can do about it. There are no SBPD or Psych cases to occupy his mind. Henry is off carousing with a woman he met at some massage therapy center and Gus is, well, Gus is doing his job, as he's supposed to.

Shawn wanders around for a few days, feeling his body stop thrumming with the anxious anticipation he'd had since getting struck by lightning. He had felt powered by an energy too frenzied to name and now he feels like a man who hasn't slept in a week.

Juliet takes note of Shawn's behavior a few weeks later at a local case that may be a murder or just an accidental death. Shawn doesn't cry foul, mostly because he has no idea. None of the members of the SBPD can make sense of his behavior. Juliet had thought a case would stir up the excitement in Shawn but she was wrong.

Suddenly, as they are crouching over the dead body, Shawn feels like he has been kicked in his midsection. He clutches at himself, overwhelmed. The edges of his vision melt away, rendering everything into misshapen, gray shapes. He tries to speak but it feels like cotton is weighing down his tongue.

A form materializes in front of him – Chief Vick? Looking harried, looking concerned and waving around papers in her sweaty palms. " _This behavior, it's synonymous with a serial killer whose work originated four towns over…"_

A man is the background, crouching in a corner, nearly invisible. Shawn wants to reach out, to draw attention to him, but he presses a finger to his lips and vanishes like smoke, curling into every corner of the house and rising to the ceiling.

The gray, blurred sights around him come closer and closer, spiraling like a star until it pricks at his eyes and it is all he sees. He tries to grapple onto something but loses his footing, collapsing onto something that scratches at his skin. Desperately, he tries to work air into his lungs.

His world comes back into color, to Juliet crouching over him, concern washing over her. "Shawn?" she demands. "Are you okay?"

An SBPD officer rushes over to help Shawn up and he nods his appreciation, looking around wearily at everyone.

At that moment, Chief Vick storms through the front door with papers clenched in her hand.

Shawn gulps.

"This behavior, it's synonymous with a serial killer whose work originated four towns over…"

Shawn blanches. If he had just _seen_ Chief Vick, moments ago, doing and saying the same things, what did this mean? Surely it couldn't have been a…vision. Was it ludicrous to think that, after all these years, he was finally turning into the man he had professed to be?

Right then, Shawn feels the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He turns to his left and sees the same man he had before, attempting to slink away unseen.

It hits him with sudden clarity; this really can't be explained in any other way. He has to be…psychic.

"Oh, no _way_ ," Shawn breathes.

* * *

 _the end_


End file.
